


Lux Aeterna

by thecookiemomma



Series: Requiem for a Fall [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecookiemomma/pseuds/thecookiemomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fist has flown, and the dust settled, John and Sherlock talk things out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lux Aeterna

**Author's Note:**

> (My post-Reichenbach story. I couldn't just leave Lacrimosa as it was, apparently.) 
> 
> If the guys are a little OOC, forgive me. I don't quite have a handle on Sherlock's voice yet. John comes more easily, but since so much of who he is in the story is defined by his interactions with Sherlock, if I've mucked one, I've mucked them both.
> 
> Enjoy.

John had expended all his energy for the day. He'd punched his best friend in the jaw, ranted and raved at him for almost two hours, and then he'd collapsed in a huff on the couch. He was amused with himself, because he was hungry. His instincts told him to have the other person – the person he wanted to skin alive for _fucking lying_ to him – whip up something to eat. He'd just done the shopping today and had enough food; he just had absolutely no energy to move now. However, knowing that that person was _bloody Sherlock Holmes_ , it would most likely involve pulling poor Mrs. Hudson's flat down around them. So, he pushed himself up, moved to the kitchen without a word, and began rummaging through the food in the refrigerator. He resigned himself to finding pieces of dead humans in there again, and gave himself a mental reminder to check every container before throwing it into the trash or the casserole. 

 

Sherlock sat in his chair observing, deducing, watching – who bloody cared what he called it, at least at the moment – John's every move. The feel of that intense gaze on his back made him shiver. He had realized so much in the long months that Sherlock had been gone, and it made his eyes tear up with frustration, anger, and longing. He pulled a few things out and began preparing a meal. It seemed neither man was willing to break the silence just yet. John knew that Sherlock was aware of how useless an apology would be to him at the moment, and John didn't feel like breaking the strict silence yet. 

 

Twenty minutes later, John's stir fry finished cooking, and John dished up two plates. Sherlock moved to sit down, nodding in silence, acquiescing to the intense glare that John gave him.  _Just eat, you prick._ John needed the normal for just a few moments, and nothing would interfere with that. Hell, if Greg stopped by with a case, he'd growl at him, set him down and feed him in silence,  _then_ see how things went. Sherlock seemed to sense that, and he ate his meal nearly soundlessly, only nodding at something playing on a screen in his 'mind palace', or something. The silence reigned for the entire meal. John wasn't sure he liked it, but he couldn't let go yet. He cleaned up, washed up, and then moved to sit on the sofa, still silent. Sherlock followed him, sitting beside him, clearly unsure of what to do. Both men wanted to bridge the divide; neither knew how to start. 

 

John debated turning the telly on, but he decided against it. He turned in his seat, facing his flatmate, and sighed. “I'm angry.” 

 

“I had deduced that, yes.” Sherlock attempted to fit a little humor into the situation, and John couldn't help the small smile that crossed his face. “It is the normal reaction to my actions. I wish to have the opportunity to explain myself. If not now, then at some point in the near future when you might be more receptive to hearing my reasons.” 

 

“I get that.” John considered. “Yeah, maybe not tonight. Tonight, I want to stew for a while. You left me for six months, and I ...” John looked up, knowing that his friend would be able to see every trace of emotion in his expression. Whether the man would be able to parse it all correctly was another matter, but he didn't want to make it that easy for him. Not quite yet. 

 

Sherlock studied him, then assumed his 'thinking pose', sitting straight on the couch, elbows on knees, fingers steepled against his chin. John just watched him, curious as to what was going on inside the man's head, and whether he was processing this right, or whether he'd be completely off again, as he often was when it came to emotions. 

 

“Since when?” Sherlock's first question was a tricky one. John had a feeling he knew what the man was asking, but he had to be sure. 

 

“Since when, _what_ , Sherlock? When did I know you were alive? When did I last buy milk at Tesco's? You're going to have to be a little more boring – a little more clear here. I think I understand you, but I don't want to get this wrong.” 

 

“You have clearly been considering regrets, namely that of pursuing a completely different relationship with myself, which, though I am not adverse to such a relationship, I do wonder if you are as smart as I had originally thought...” John looked over at Sherlock, expecting to see the small smile of humor, and was surprised when he saw the worried expression instead. 

 

“Army doctor. Had a bad day,” John gestured to himself, referring to the Belgravia case, hoping to be the one to inject a little dry humor. 

 

John considered the detective's soft snort to be a partial success. He leaned back, wanting to see what Sherlock would say next. “I am unused to considering another's preferences in anything. As you know, I was raised in an upper class setting, and I was given much of my wants early. The one person who took the time to tell me 'no' was my brother, and that was usually mostly so he could keep his place as elder sibling quite stable. More lately, it has been for more – philanthropic reasons, however, patterns had been established. When I did what I did...” He didn't detail exactly  _what_ he'd done yet – John certainly wasn't ready to face that – “I considered the effect upon myself, the individuals I'd chosen to help, and upon my brother, whom I informed of my plan. I knew you would be distraught, however, you would be safe, and that seemed an equivalent transaction.” John was intrigued. He leaned forward a little, and nodded, and Sherlock correctly took the cue to continue. “I did not think it would affect you in such a way, indeed, I did not know it would affect  _me_ in such a way. I had become accustomed to your presence, as well as that of Lestrade. However, while I could move on and focus without the presence of our Inspector, I found my thoughts often drifting toward you, and the lack of you in my daily life. I felt it keenly.” Sherlock seemed pained to have to say even that much. 

 

John affected his own thinking pose: two fingers ran along his cheek, rubbing in a slow rhythm. He sat his elbow on the knee closest to the back of the couch, and gazed impassively at Sherlock as he thought. After a few minutes, he spoke. “Watching you fall. Realizing I wouldn't have the chance to tell you that I thought you really were brilliant, and not just because you knew so much about me from the very beginning. You're a crap flatmate, honestly, but I couldn't have a better friend.” He sighed. “Then, I realized that I missed you in more ways that that. Heard a violin playing a dirge. Think they called it a  _Lacrimosa_ . A requiem.” He shuddered, remembering the tune. “I couldn't hear a violin at all. I couldn't even bring myself to think about a stringed instrument. That wasn't my department. It was yours.” He left the obvious line out –  _And you were dead._

 

Sherlock listened, turning a little to face him. John kept silent for a few minutes, considering how to continue. He felt the need to do something, so he stood, busying himself with preparing tea. Sherlock may have been able to wall everything off to think, but it seemed John did his best thinking while moving and doing mundane things. Which was a good thing, really, considering his flatmate's aversion to any sort of mundane work at all. “I watched you fall, and I mourned you, hoped for you, bargained with whomever might hear that you weren't dead. I dreamed of you, waited for you, and then just gave in. Greg and Molly and Harry have been 'watching over' me. Mycroft too, for all I know.” John sipped at his tea, then stepped back over to take his seat. “I don't know when I realized for sure that I missed you like Greg missed his ex or Harry missed Clara.” He snorted. “I'm a right mess when it comes to figuring all that out. We make a pair.” Sherlock quietly snorted his agreement, then nodded again. “It's a bit different, isn't it? It's not this overwhelming need.” John shrugged, setting the tea down. “It sneaked in there, quiet as can be, and suddenly, I'm wishing I told you what I didn't even know myself. That made me angry – more at myself than at you – because I didn't know enough to tell you that I needed you to stay for me.” John shook his head. “Sounds daft, I know.” 

 

“It most certainly does not,” Sherlock replied. “It sounds very familiar.” The taller man leaned back, setting his hand on John's shoulder, surely gaging his reaction to the touch. John felt the color slip back in his vision, pushing out some small portion of the grays that had washed over his existence. He turned into the touch, smiling, unsure of what to do. 

 

“Never had much luck with this.” John looked down, admitting his annoyance. “Pulled, but never felt ...” His cheeks flushed with the embarrassment of speaking so bluntly to Sherlock about such personal things. 

 

“Yes, quite.” Sherlock agreed, though John wasn't sure if it was a general agreement on John's experience, or his empathetic observation. “I am uncertain where we may go from here.” 

 

“Yeah. But you're here. Tonight, I need to rest, and you need to rest, then we'll go on. I want to know the whole story – from you going up to meet that madman on St. Bart's, to why you aren't exactly buried under six feet of earth, to who we did bury...” John's voice trailed off as his mind came up with question after question. 

 

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed. They both knew that Sherlock liked the ritual of explaining the case to his blogger when it was finished. “However, you are correct. I am in need of rest, as are you. May I attempt one thing?” 

 

John nodded, unsure of what his friend would do. 

 

Sherlock pulled them both up, wrapped his arms around the shorter man, and drew him in for a close embrace. “Good night, John.” 

 

“Good night, Sherlock.” John replied, willing to stay in the warmth of Sherlock's arms until he chose to let him go. 


End file.
